Mr Wario Goes To Washington
by Loke Groundrunner
Summary: The remarkable and awe-inspiring not-true story of how Wario Jon Bon Jovi Wario, the richest and ugliest man in America, became the President of the United States. Rated K for now.
1. Prologue: The Streets of Washington

A/N: Ah, election time is upon us once again, that blessed period every two years when we get bombarded night and day with those annoying political ads that all contradict each other and try to scare us more than The Black Eyed Peas' and Cher Lloyd's musical careers combined. What better way to celebrate the zaniest time of the year than with a politically-themed fanfic? Come on, you can forget about those annoying ads for a few minutes and not have to think about how Candidate X likes to eat babies and wants to kick Granny off a cliff and how special interest groups want to outsource you to China and use the Constitution as a hankie. Whaddaya say?

**Pointless Legal Disclaimer Time! **I don't own Smash Brothers (Special interest groups do), America (The Koch Brothers do) or the world (Mitt Romney does).

* * *

A winter morning in Washington, D.C.; snow's falling in fine flakes like diamond dust. People are standing on the street corners, watching as a fat man and a blue duckish-penguin thing, both clad in trenchcoats, make their way down Pennsylvania Avenue. The birdman's wife and son walk alongside him; they are also birdfolk. Some Secret Service agents follow behind the four. Behind the agents, a motorcade of black cars packed full of cronies and Secret Service agents crawl along the blacktop.

The new president, the vice president and his family wave at the smiling crowds. The president flashes several Nixonesque peace signs. A brass band on the street corner plays a patriotic tune. Yes, it is Inauguration Day in America once again: that day when everyone is celebrating the prospect of a new leader, pretending that the country is about to have a fresh start while ignoring the possibilities of how they will be screwed over for the next four to eight years.

What a historic day this is: for the first time in American history, a third party candidate has been elected president! This same third party holds control of the House of Representatives, as well as a sizeable number of seats in the Senate (though not enough to be declared a majority). A new day is dawning in the United States, the day of the Federalist Party. The old order of the long established two-party system has come to a devastating end. Only the next four years can tell if at long last the hope and change Americans have long asked for shall come to pass.

This is story of a man who climbed the ladder of destiny; the story of a man who forever changed history.

This is the story of Barack Obam—

Oh, hold on a minute, I'm looking at the wrong script.

This is the story of Wario Wario.


	2. Dreamer

A/N: Oh well, election season's over. Guess I should be cancelling this fic now… PSYCH! I'm going to keep writing this until it's done, no matter how long it takes. Not even death shall stop me… &_#

Alright, let's get this over with…

**I do not own Super Smash Brothers. Capiche?**

Oh yeah, and there's some OCs in this chapter. You've been warned.

* * *

Our story begins on a sultry June morning in New York City. It's so hot that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk or alternatively, on a bald man's head. A young man is standing outside of a theater in Greenwich Village; he's drinking soda from a 6 ounce plastic cup since it's illegal to sell soft drinks in containers larger than 16 ounces within city limits (Refusing to comply results in violators being locked in a darkened room for three days and forced to watch reruns of _Here Comes Honey Boo Boo_, with their eyes taped open).

The young man stares out at the concrete jungle before him, thinking about that girl he likes from Japan and wondering why she hasn't poked him on Facebook lately. He's so lost in his mental ruminations that he doesn't notice a group of multicolored Yoshi gangsters wearing brass knuckles and brandishing piano wire coming towards him out of a nearby alley.

But this is of little relevance to us. What is relevant—or rather I should say _who _is relevant— is inside the theater, for it is inside that we find the man who would one day be president…

* * *

Wario was standing on the stage inside Little Black Hole Theater, dressed in a lumpy, misshapen foam costume that was supposed to represent a rock. Perched on top of Wario's foam covered head was Larry Mulhanon, one of the regulars at LBHT, dressed like a turkey. In the background of the stage stood a crude replica of a 17th century English village and immediately behind both of the actors was a crowd of actors and actresses dressed as pilgrims, huddled together inside a cage that glowed with pulsating green and purple neon lights.

At this point, you're probably screaming at your screen, "What the frak is this crap?" Well, if you would kindly shut up for a moment, I'll tell you. Wario was playing Plymouth Rock in _Neon Genesis Tisquantum_, the smash Off-Broadway musical that recounted Squanto's epic journey through time to find a legendary anime mecha in order to save the first Thanksgiving from a race of giant alien turkeys who had come from the 27th century to ruin Thanksgiving for everyone for some reason.

The man in the turkey suit who was roosting atop Wario's foamy not-rock head extended a wing at an approaching figure. "Ah!" he cried melodramatically. "You have come at last, Tisquantum!"

Stepping out from the mists of a third-rate smoke machine was a figure clad in a shiny suit made from recycled Campbell's soup cans that looked no better than a tawdry children's Halloween costume and resembled a cross between Optimus Prime and Eva-02 from _Neon Genesis Evangelion_. It was Nick Freespirit, the star of the show, portraying Squanto.

He stood in silent bravado before the turkey-suited man and "Plymouth Rock" for a moment with his head bowed. He then turned his gaze upward. "Yes, Meleagris!" he said in a dramatic, Power Rangeresque voice from behind a cheap chrome-plated mask with golden lenses. He raised his right arm, which had a chintzy looking plastic tomahawk attached at the wrist. "I have come to set the good people of Plymouth Colony free! No longer shall they suffer in the oppressive grasp of you and your Butterballian ilk's feathery agenda!"

After uttering these lines and slashing at the air pointlessly with his tomahawk, a totally epic rock ballad began to be played by a group of studio musicians who were chained to the stage, lest they run off and find a better paying job elsewhere.

Nick struck a ridiculous pose and began to sing in a pseudo falsetto that would make whatever judges they have on American Idol this season cringe in disgust.

_I have sworn to protect the ones I love_

_From all threats real and imagined._

_I have sailed through the mists of time,_

_So that we may talk with our fists!_

The pilgrims sang in descending scales:

_With our fists!_

_With our fists!_

_With our fists!_

Wario sighed. Of all the lousy roles in the musical, why did they have to stick him with one that had no speaking lines? And the job itself sucked. You only got paid a miserly 927 dollars a week, what little health insurance they offered you barely covered anything and the backstage sandwiches left much to be desired.

But this was the way his life had been going lately. He had to take what he could get, no matter how insignificant it seemed.

It hadn't always been like this. There was a time not too long ago that he had been the president and CEO of WarioWare, Inc., one of the world's largest independent video game companies. He was riding high back in those days, going for leisurely afternoon swims in the caviar-filled pool behind his solid gold mansion in the San Joaquin Valley; going skydiving with his trusty golden parachute while sipping apple martinis with John Kerry, Warren Buffett and Donald Trump; having drunken celebrity karaoke parties at three in the morning; eating off of gold plates and sleeping on sacks loaded full of sweet, sweet money. Life was good.

Then along came the recession (Hadn't there been one not too long before?). Things were looking bleak. WarioWare's profits were in the red. Wario, left with few options, did the only moral and honorable thing he could think of: he filed bankruptcy, stole all of his employee's money and investments and ran as fast as his stubby legs could carry him to his tax shelter in the Cayman Islands. He planned to spend the rest of his days there in leisure, sipping Jose Cuervo from coconuts while several thousand grad students, who had been lured there through deceitful ads on Craigslist, constructed for him a grand and lavish island paradise.

Unfortunately, that dream was torn to pieces when a deranged gulf and western singer, who possessed a longstanding grudge against Wario for trashing his shrimp shack during a rowdy business trip visit, tracked the fat man down, took control of the resort with the help of an undead crew of skeletal pirates and tried to kill him by unleashing a murderous flock of flesh-eating parrots upon the island. Wario narrowly escaped with his life and returned to the United States, where he was able to make people forget about his financial misdeeds by leaving money-lined suitcases at the doors of numerous public officials and law enforcement agencies.

This brief triumph of Wario's was overshadowed by the horrible discovery that his gold mansion had been auctioned off to Rich Uncle Pennybags, who had gutted the place and had turned it into a human Monopoly board, with many of Wario's old business partners portraying the tokens, buildings and other associated characters.

Feeling much too lazy to save his former friends since there would be no payment involved, and finding himself down to his last thirty million dollars after the payoffs and the island fiasco, Wario found himself living a gypsy existence, travelling the country in his trusty Wario Car in search of odd jobs, hustling pool games and stealing from the rich to give to himself in the process.

Meanwhile, as the author continued to bore his readers stupid with all of this unnecessary exposition, Wario was still up on that stage, standing granite-foam silent as all of these gloomy thoughts swirled around in his brain like stagnant toilet water. He was so lost in his own little depressing world that he didn't notice Squanto and Meleagris' final battle or see the Pilgrims get freed or even hear the audience's applause.

In fact, Wario continued on in these rueful ruminations for so long that he didn't even realize he had left the theater and had driven home until he walked through the door and turned on the lights. He stood there in the doorway for a moment as he slowly snapped back into reality. He made a confused noise, scratched his butt pensively and shook his head like a wet dog in confusion.

_I gotta stop-a doing that_, he thought as he stepped into his hideout, which was hidden beneath the basement of the Hilton Newark Penn Station hotel, located in beautiful downtown Newark, New Jersey. It was a far cry from the opulence of his golden mansion, but it was home, and that meant something. What exactly that something was Wario hadn't figured out yet.

He had been living down here since February, when he got a job working at a golf course up in Maine. The pay was meager, the commute long and gas-consuming and he only had the job for two months due to the fact that he was fired after he was caught stealing urinal cakes from the men's room, which he was selling on the black market for quite the pretty penny. After a month of angst and unemployment benefits, Wario was able to get a job at Little Black Hole Theater. And now you know.

After taking a quick pit stop in the restroom, Wario waddled into his kitchen and took out of his refrigerator six plates of liver and onions, three plates of veal parmesan, a loaf of garlic bread and a pint of milk. He carried these items over to the ebony coffee table in his TV room and plopped his great girth down onto his olive-hued sofa bed. Then opening his mouth, the obese Italian man sucked in his meal and swallowed it with one big gulp.

Satisfied, Wario patted his rock-solid gut and let out a guttural belch that caused the sofa, the television, the end table, the loveseat and the portrait of Gordon Gekko above the loveseat to vibrate like broken washing machines in a two-bit Laundromat being ridden by a duo of drunken Hungarian dwarves hopped up on demon blood and rancid Greek yogurt.

The tremors were also felt in the upper levels of the hotel. Vases fell and shattered; an aged businessman's suitcase toppled over; varied knickknacks vibrated from their resting places and landed on the floor; a maid who was trying to steal light bulbs from above a bathroom sink stumbled from the chair she was standing on and struck her head; and a Wall Street fatcat seated in the dining room with his fellow fatcats watched in silent horror as his glass of Merlot and his plate of filet mignon fell off of the table and onto his five hundred dollar pants and seven hundred dollar Gucci shoes.

Meanwhile back in the hideout— after the quaking had finally stopped—Wario caught glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye sitting next to him on the couch. He turned and saw that it was his beloved WarioPad, an electronic reader whose design was curiously similar to the Amazon Kindle, except that it was yellow and had a plastic facsimile of Wario's iconic nose and moustache sticking out at the top of the device above the screen.

Wario smiled at the sight of the device. He stretched out a sinuous arm and snatched up the gadget with his sausage-like fingers. He then held it in front of his face; by some mere act of God, the screen was able to resist cracking in the presence of the obese Italian man's hideous visage.

The one-of-a-kind WarioPad had been constructed from pirated blueprin—Ah, I mean, _constructed_—by Dr. Crygor, the former chief scientist/visionary dude at WarioWare, as a token of mutual friendship between himself and Wario. Unfortunately, this relationship between the two men soured after Wario began to use the device to send threatening and harassing text messages to Crygor, complaining to him that he was working too slow on projects and that if he didn't get them done on time that there would be "consequences, piledriving consequences".

Crygor eventually left the company due to the antagonism between him and Wario. After spending years in isolation in his laboratory underneath Harvard, where he worked on all sorts of top secret projects, Crygor became the current administration's chief mad scientist/technorati guy, a job that he had been offered after he had stopped a zombie apocalypse and dezombified the president with an anti-zombie virus vaccine made of blue Gatorade, dog hair and other organic components. Crygor was more than happy to take the position since it would pay much more than what Wario used to give him (Four bucks an hour) and what he made on his own as an independent scientist (Hint: it rhymes with 'hero').

Wario sighed as he held the device in his hands and stared at it in a very Lost-esque way. _Maybe someday I'll get-a my big break, too…_

He pressed the power button, thus turning the WarioPad on (Duh). As the main menu appeared, an 8-bit rendition of the WarioWare theme played. The fat man smiled as he heard the jingle; ah, the memories that melody brought back to him. In his mind's eye, he could see himself standing in the assembly line at WarioWare's international headquarters, plugging his WarioPad into the loudspeakers just to blast random R.E.M. songs at the workers in order to "motivate" them. For just a moment, he was back in his posh office, using the 'Pad to send memos typed in blood red font to tell the employees what benefits he was cutting this week while playing Pong and using a phony eHarmony account to trick Mona into thinking she was flirting with a studly billionaire playboy from Italy. Good times.

After being brought back into the cold, hard present a few moments later, Wario downloaded a copy of some daily newspaper whose name shall not be mentioned, lest said paper send teamsters over to the author's house and beat him until he is forced to spend the rest of his days drinking tuna through a straw and writing emo songs about how much his life sucks because he has to drink tuna through a straw.

He sat a while in silence, flipping through the digital pages while making an occasional grunting sound as he went prospecting in his right nostril. It was always his sincere hope that one day he would find Saddam Hussein's lost gold stash hidden up there. These were just a few of the headlines that were in the news that day:

PRESIDENT X DECLARES WEST COAST ZOMBIE-FREE

DEDEDE IN DONOR VIDEO: "47 PERCENT OF AMERICANS ARE IDIOTS"

GAS PRICES TO GO UP… AGAIN

PIENTOLOGY IS FASTEST GROWING RELIGION IN NORTH AMERICA, STUDY SUGGESTS

Wario was nearly done reading the paper when he saw an advertisement, _the_ advertisement; the thing that would forever change the course of his life and set him off on a nonreversible rendezvous with destiny. A sight that startled him so badly that he jammed his finger so far up his nose that he poked his brain and frightened Roachie, his pet cockroach lived in his skull.

It was an advertisement for a presidential candidate lookalike contest, to be held on the Fourth of July weekend in Las Vegas. The winner was promised a prize of $50,000 and a five-year contract as the spokesman for Meat of LaMacho, the only meat-scented body spray for men approved by both the FDA and the Mexican Ministry of Health.

Wario was so surprised by the ad that he dropped the WarioPad and stood up dramatically. "This is-a it…" he said quietly, his finger still stuck up his nose. "THIS IS-A MY BIG BREAK!"

He pulled his finger out of his nostril along with his brain. "Uh oh." He quickly snorted the wrinkled, greasy gray glob back into his head and then started to dance around the hideout while laughing manically, his fat jiggling in such a way that it would render anyone who witnessed the unholy sight blind.

"BEAUTIFUL!" He bellowed, causing yet another quake upstairs. "EXCELLENT! I'M-A BE NUMBER ONE AGAIN!"

After Wario had finally gotten a hold of himself and calmed down a bit, he grabbed his keys and his pet hen Henrietta that lived in his bathtub and went into his garage. He jumped into his wonderful Wario Car, put his Meat Loaf/Pink Floyd/The Doors mixtape into the car's eight-track player and gunned the engine. Like a bat out of hell, he drove up the subterranean tunnel and out into the darkened streets, the headlights shining like two crazy diamonds in the night air.

After stopping to get five chili dogs and acquiring some "supplies", Wario sped off like a killer on the road, indiscriminately running over anyone or anything that got in his way. He eventually got to the interstate and set a course for Las Vegas, where his destiny awaited him…


End file.
